


We're Okay II

by OkLumi



Series: We're Okay [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abused Draco Malfoy, Angst, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Domestic Violence, Drarry, Harry Has Issues, Hurt, M/M, Mental Health Issues, POV Harry Potter, Scared Draco Malfoy, Top Harry Potter, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:34:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25421719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OkLumi/pseuds/OkLumi
Summary: When you get back, it’s as if everything is okay, as if I’m okay. I open the door, and the way you look at me, as if you actually love and deserve me, how you instantly move close and smile into my shoulder makes me believe that I can treat you right, if only for tonight.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: We're Okay [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1841281
Comments: 4
Kudos: 96





	We're Okay II

**Author's Note:**

> This is the part two I wasn't planning, but that happened anyway. I would recommend reading part one first, though they can both be read as stand-alones or in any order you want.  
> Contains mentions of domestic violence, so please read with caution. Wish you all well.

When I wake up, you’re there next to me, your soft breathing the only sound in our room. I blink at you, you’re very blurry, and it takes me a little while to realise that you took off my glasses again. You always do that, even though I always just use reparo if they break, but in this one case you don’t have faith in magic. I always keep them on. Old habits die hard.  
But it’s cute. I like it when you do things like that, things that you don’t realise you don’t have to do but that you do because you want to help.  
You’re usually up before me, so I don’t waste the time I get to look at you. You’re so beautiful like this, unguarded, relaxed, unbothered by any of my horrid outbreaks.  
When you sleep, you look as carefree as you used to.  
I gently shift to stroke your cheek, pet your hair, kiss you on the cheek. I savour the moment.  
You stir eventually, make a soft sound, and I quickly put my glasses back and pretend to be asleep so you can get your morning to yourself.

You didn’t do anything. I know you didn’t. I know you didn’t mean to do it, I know you would never intentionally trigger bad memories. But when you smile at me so brilliantly, as if I’ve never hit you in my life, and then drop your plate to the floor without even moving a muscle, I can’t help but react.  
The glass. The shattering of it. The little sharp shards everywhere, spraying out into the room, the loud sound as it shatters followed by the sound of it hitting the cold stone floor. I’m in Hogwarts, there is fire and screaming and blood and so much glass. The sounds are so bad, deafening, and all I want is to go somewhere quiet, where there is no war, no fighting, no destruction, no death.  
No war.  
The world shifts, you’re there, but in sixth year in your sleek, black suit, I just know you broke the windows, and all I want is quiet.

The first blow is always relieving. It’s right, it’s familiar, it makes me safer when I fight back, when I resist. I didn’t for a long time. I can now. It feels good. The second is always in frustration, because the world is still cruel, there isn’t quiet yet. And after the second, all I feel is pain.  
Pain in my fist. Pain in my throat after screaming. But most of all pain in my mind.  
And then, suddenly, finally, it is quiet. There is only one sound, a quiet lonely sound. You’re crying. You’re standing in front of me, right there in front of me, and I don’t for the love of Merlin understand why you never try to get away from me.  
You just take it. Every single time. You simply stand there, right there in front of me, with your head slightly bowed and your hand covering your mouth. I think it is to stop the crying until I see your red arm.  
No. No. It wasn’t going to happen again. It wasn’t going to, damn it, it’s always never going to happen again. But it always does.  
And you always take it, you barely show any sign of pain apart from the occasional choked sob. I want to touch you, want to clean you up and hold you tight and kiss you better and make the pain go away, apologize, I want to show you that I can love, too, not just destroy, that I’m good enough for you.  
But I’m not, you’re the one who always patches me up, you’ll stand there bleeding from four different places with bruises all over and a leg so pained you can barely stand upright and you’ll bondage my thumb because I broke my nail giving you pain.  
I can’t risk reaching out to you, so all I do is watch, sob with you. You stop crying after an eternity, finally remove your hand, your forearm is soaked red by now, and there is a tiny sound as something hits the ground. I freeze, try finding whatever dropped amidst the million pieces of shattered porcelain, but your gasp when you find it before me brings my eyes back up.  
My mouth goes dry when I catch the gap in your otherwise flawless row of teeth, and I stare dumbly at the wall as you move to clean up the mess on the floor and bandage my hand.

It’s okay. It wasn’t a full tooth, only the bottom half or so, you tell me a while later in a careful voice. We don’t talk about my episodes. I understand why you’re so hesitant. I also understand that you’re trying to make me feel better about the whole thing, but it doesn’t fucking work. Yeah, alright, it wasn’t a whole tooth, just a bit of one. How does that help?  
We find a faculty – magical, of course, you’re still scared of the washing machine – and they tell us they can fix it, mend the bit that fell off back with magic. The procedure requires a small fortune on our part, and five massive ones to keep their mouths shut, but it’s worth it. You’re even more paranoid about the prophet getting a word of our lives than I am. But they fix you, your beautiful rare smile is back and there isn’t a word about it in the papers.

I’m walking through diagon ally, I can’t remember why but I know it’s important, and it’s eerily empty wherever I look. Quiet, too, but the wrong kind. Too quiet.  
There is a shadow when I turn, and in the next moment my scar starts burning, my forehead turning to ashes, and the pain is so unfamiliar that I don’t even register the death eaters that sneak up on me. They start firing at me, nasty hexes that hurt, but they are nothing compared to the aching mark on my forehead. It’s blinding, the pain, and the fear that follows from the scar I’d almost forgotten about is paralyzing.  
Next thing I know is that someone tells me to speak, the voice hauntingly familiar but I can’t make him out behind his horrid mask.  
I look around, my wand is gone, there are people everywhere, a stark contrast to the scene just a moment ago, I think I spot your hair somewhere in the crowd.  
Draco! I call out, you don’t hear me, but they do, they laugh at me, charge after you, and I scream and scream after you, but it’s not enough, I’m not enough, fuck, they’ve got you now, they’re forcing you to the ground, no, the laughter is so painful and they have me in a body bind and there is a flash of green and the laughter and the faces all melt together into the man I hate the most-

Shh, someone says, softly, close to me, right beside me, and it’s you, isn’t it?  
Draco? My voice is hoarse, as if I really did scream.  
It was just a dream, you say, just a dream. It’s okay.  
You died, I tell you, devastated, you died, Draco, because of me, they took you and I didn’t help you.  
But all you say to this is a quiet it’s okay, Harry, I’m here now, and then you kiss my nose and hug me tight. It’s hard to have more nightmares when you sleep in the arms of an angel.

I don’t even fucking know why it happened this time, can’t for the love of Morgana remember what the hell you did. Or probably didn’t. All I know is that you don’t react to whatever words are coming out of my mouth where you half sit, half stand by your desk. You’re crying hysterically, babbling incoherently, I think you’re talking to yourself.  
I don’t fucking know why I did it.  
The world is spinning, always spinning, changing and shifting and I don’t know where I am anymore.  
Your notes twisted, turned into something vague, an evil object, I don’t know what, but I knew I needed to get rid of it, light it on fire.  
But your notes were just your notes. Or, not just your notes, but some of the best notes you’ve ever made. You’ve been talking about it for the better part of five weeks, now, this thing you’re figuring out.  
And I ruined everything. Again.  
I can’t hold the tears back anymore, I’m so sorry, Draco, please believe me, please understand even though I’m too big of a coward to say it.  
You tend to me again, care for the few scratches I’ve gotten myself this time, and the relief from me not seeing any blood on you is quickly killed by how you keep touching your ear uncomfortably and how utterly crushed you look.  
It’s okay, you whisper, thankfully in a steady voice, and I cling to the words as if my life depends on them.

You leave to visit your mother on her birthday, and thankfully you agree that you should spend a few more days with her. She doesn’t get many visitors.  
I have that weekend alone, and it’s horrible. I miss you the second we’ve kissed goodbye, but it’s good for you. To get some time to think. Some time away from me, some time to be free. Some time for your injuries to heal properly. Some time for you to finally realise that you need to get the hell away from me.

When you get back, it’s as if everything is okay, as if I’m okay. I open the door, and the way you look at me, as if you actually love and deserve me, how you instantly move close and smile into my shoulder makes me believe that I can treat you right, if only for tonight.  
Things move quickly. Our clothes are vanished, your suitcase moved inside, our giggling moving into the bedroom and turning into moans, I can’t tell who does what, all I know is that we’re in bed, naked, you under me, me in you.  
Fuck, this is where I belong. Over you, but really below you. All I want is to make you happy, Draco. I know you’d call bullshit on that any day, and you’re right to do so, but it’s true, even as fucked as I am. My place is with you, giving you whatever you crave of me, I’ll give you everything, Draco, please let me try and make it okay for once.  
You’re doing it now, I realise. Something always comes up, and it’s been far too long since we did this, but you’re giving me a chance.  
You’re never more vulnerable than this, I think. We both know that even as good as your charms are, I’m stronger, your wand is too far away, and I could easily pin you down and kick and hit and punch and elbow and choke you. And we both know that, for whatever reason, you wouldn’t move a muscle if I did.  
I won’t hurt you tonight, Draco, you have my word, whatever that’s worth at this point.  
And fuck, it’s so good, to see you finally close your eyes around me, to finally see your hands relax above your head, no longer twitchy and alert.  
You moan, quietly, but that’s not new, you’ve always been quiet in bed, suddenly shy, it’s endearing and it drives me crazy.  
This is how it used to be. Before. When we’d just moved in here together and could fuck as much as we wanted. When I could lose myself like this, get rougher, without me being afraid of hurting you, without you being afraid of me hurting you.  
You’re so good, Harry, you say between moans and little gasps. It’s the best thing I’ve ever fucking heard.  
I shift, give you my best, we’re both close, I can tell, but suddenly and as if I’ve flipped a switch, you change. Your moans stop and give to a desperate whimper, your hands clutch the bedding and then come up in front of your face to protect yourself, you tighten around me and squirm around frantically until I slip out, then you stop moving and freeze in a foetal position below me. I don’t need to look to see that you’re soft.  
I move back, give you some space, not knowing what else to do, manoeuvre the duvet over you, swallow heavily as I hear your quiet crying.

It was supposed to be like before. It was like before. But I’ve ruined you, haven’t I, so much that I can’t even make love to you anymore, because you believe that I can’t love you.  
It looks like you’re right. I don’t quite manage to hold back the tears that form from looking at how badly you’re shaking.  
I climb back onto the bed after slipping my boxers back on. I can’t ask if you’re alright, hate that I can’t ask, afraid of the words sounding cruel or mocking, so I simply shut my mouth and snuggle up behind you, give you what little comfort I can.  
Is this okay? I ask after a while, after I’ve grabbed your hand and settled in. You don’t respond. I don’t know if I expected you to. You let out a shaky breath, as if you’re letting the last bit of your crying out, and I have to ask. Even though I know the answer will break me as badly as I have you.  
Were you afraid?  
It’s okay, you whisper, high-pitched and shaky and too quick.  
You were. Probably still are. It kills me.  
Goodnight, Draco. I’m really sorry, I’ll... I’ll try something different next time. Next time. As if there will be one. I love you. Sorry.  
You don’t say it back. This time I don’t expect you to. I’ve never hated myself more than I do in this moment.

I wake up to a world of pain, a nightmare-like world of pain and a dark, dark space, I touch the wall, it’s so small in here, I can barely stand upright. I touch some more, my throat is now much tighter, mirroring the small room, maybe even closet. I feel bumps in the ceiling, square bumps, someone walks in the floor above and their steps make dust fall onto my face, I can’t see but, oh no, there are stairs above me, stairs, and I can’t move.  
I turn, find a small streak of light, try opening the door but it’s shut, of course, oh no, it’s locked, no.  
No no no, I fumble some more, want to cry, scream, kick, but I can’t, then I’ll be in here for even longer.  
I hear the steps go down again, there is a voice, I’m dragged out of the closet and the world is suddenly bright, then the only thing I’m aware of is pain.

It’s okay, darling, I hear, and I almost think it’s him again but I know your voice, I’ll always know your voice. It’s you and thank fuck it’s you, you hold me and hold me and hold me.

When I get angry again in the living room is when I fully understand what the hell it is I’ve done to you.  
I’ve broken you. I’ve taken away my Draco and replaced him with someone very, very broken.

It’s my fault, you say in a rush, and it makes every thought I have vanish.  
Your fault? How could you ever think that any of this is your fault?  
I’ll be better, you continue. No, Draco, you’re wrong, you’re fucking wrong, this has never been your fault. You can’t be better, you’re absolutely perfect, can’t you see? Have I made you think you’re not perfect?  
My instincts tell me to back off like I always do, wait until you get the medicine bag and hide your injuries because that’s what we always do.  
But that’s what’s turned you into this scared, insecure thing.  
I move closer to you, try to say that you’re perfect, but your eyes widen and your whole torso leans back and my words die in my throat.  
I’ve been thinking, you know, I say instead, as gently as I possibly can after screaming at you and the world for what feels like hours.  
I mean it reassuringly, as an I understand now sort of thing, but you make a little panicked sound I don’t even think you’re aware of and I’m fucking it again. No, I didn’t mean that in a bad way, in a threatening way, I meant it in a good way. I need you to understand, I love you, Draco, please let me hold you close like I used to and make you happy again.  
I hope that you’ll let me hug you, but you squirm away and flinch backwards as hard as if you’ve been slapped.  
That wasn’t just a reaction of fear, but one of habit and instinct. I’ve taught you to fear my touch.  
It’s okay! You scream, finally shout back at me, and I think it’s a good thing, but it only distresses you further, you’re standing up to me and raising your voice, showing me what it’s like, how similar the voices of you and an old, vile, large uncle can be in the right circumstance.  
It makes me flinch.  
Every time I’ve shouted at you, it’s felt like this.  
I’ve made you afraid of me. Afraid of love.  
And you think it’s your fault.  
What have I done?  
I don’t move closer, afraid I’ll push you too far away this time, I merely stand still and cry.  
Oh, Draco, it’s not your fault, love, I choke out, it makes you cry too, you shake your head at my words and draw in desperate, sharp breaths in large gulps as if you’re sick, then you wail, loudly, let it all out, it’s the worst thing I’ve ever fucking heard but god, I know you need it.  
I dare a step closer, then one more, and my heart howls when I’m close enough to hug you and you lean in without me even having lifted my arms yet.  
It’s all me, I tell you, finally, all my fault, Draco. It’s me, Draco, I know it’s me, I’m sorry I’ve ever let you think otherwise.  
I dare a kiss, a small one to your cheek, then your mouth. You don’t tense up, you don’t tilt your head away.  
People can get fixed, Draco love, and living rooms can, too. We’ll fix them both. I’ll get fixed, I promise.  
The moment you kiss me back I believe my own words.

You finally meet my eyes when I speak again, you pick up your reading and I finally hear that free, heartwarming laugh I thought I’d just made up in my head again. You found it out, the wolfsbane thing, even without your notes, and you’ve found a way to brew it safely and without any side-effects.  
I love you.  
It’s not all gone, and I still catch you flinching if you don’t expect my movement, your breath hitching if I raise my voice. I still get angry. But I know what to do, and when I’ve calmed down, you’re there, with a hand on my shoulder, suggesting a long bath or take away or a movie night.  
You’re happy, Draco, and we managed to get through it. I managed not to fuck you up completely, and I’ll never be able to make up for it, but hell, I’m going to try until the day I die.  
I’m okay.  
You’re okay.  
We’re okay.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I need to address that I in no way whatsoever want to encourage anyone to stay in an abusive situation if they can get out. This is fiction; people might change, but if you’re not safe and well, that’s not a reason to stay just because they might treat you better tomorrow. I don’t intend to romanticise domestic abuse, either. It is horrible and inexcusable, and if the abuser has underlying issues, they need to be dealt with. Again, this is fiction, not a guide of how to deal with abuse, so please don’t read it as such.  
> Wish you all the best! Please, for your own and the people around you’s sake, reach out to someone if you need help, you’re loved and deserve it.


End file.
